


i Noldoleryë

by restroomattheendoftheuniverse



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, Maedhros Is A Mama's Boy, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, chapter-specific content warnings given in the notes, hooooo boy i'm quarantined and feeling INSPIRED by tragic redheads let's do this, no beta - first drafts posted - we die like NOLDOR
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restroomattheendoftheuniverse/pseuds/restroomattheendoftheuniverse
Summary: Within the hallowed gem was the same righteous fury that drove beastly Carcharoth mad, and Maedhros felt a pang of sympathy for the creature.*~-~*This is what happens when a second chance is given to someone who needs it.***UNDER REVISION, ALL REVISED CHAPTERS AND NEW CHAPTER WILL BE UP BY (edit) SUNDAY 2/28 (it's been a long week y'all lemme sleep on what I've got so I know it's worth the long ass wait)******EDIT 2/24/21 >>> Chapter 1 is up
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Nerdanel, Nerdanel & Sons of Fëanor
Comments: 69
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'i Noldoleryë' meaning "The Release of the Noldor" as opposed to Maglor's 'i Noldolantë' meaning "The Fall of the Noldor"  
> bc fix-it fics :))))))
> 
> ***EDIT 2/24/21 >>> New chapter up <3

It was an awful, wretched feeling that filled him.

Not just the blaze of the Silmaril as it charred his remaining hand to ash—

No, it was the knowledge that he deserved it, this and much worse.

Within the hallowed gem was the same righteous fury that drove beastly Carcharoth mad, and Maedhros felt a pang of sympathy for the creature.

He was utterly spent, the aching hollowness of all his endeavors alike to an empty cup the Silmaril poured its rage into until it overflowed. It left him brimming with hatred for Morgoth and the world he had cruelly misshapen; for Manwë, who listened just long enough to spare his life yet did nothing to help the Noldor’s cause until most of them were dead; for himself and his every half-measure, half-truth, and misjudgement which led his brothers and people to such miserable ends—

He would that the lord of the skies were deaf to prayer, that Fingon’s arrow struck true that day and none of this had come to pass.

(But it was not his will that shaped fate. That much had been made abundantly clear.)

There was no Beren here to slay this pitiful beast. Maedhros stood over a chasm of earthfire, and the Silmaril’s hatred for every facet of his being burned pure and strong in his breast. There was no despair or regret left to feel. Only one final act to carry out.

His path led forward: he stepped off onto open air, and fell into a wounded earth that swallowed him whole.

<<>><<>><<>>

_ He would not remember what happened, who he spoke with or what was said. _

_ All he would recall was absolution, a white flame that dissolved every dark will holding sway over his fëa and planted a seed of redemption in his heart. _

_ <<>><<>><<>> _

There was a cool breeze blowing, carrying with it the smell of rain. Underfoot was solid stone, and all around was the murmuring of a crowd. Anticipation crackled like static in the air.

Maedhros opened his eyes to a familiar setting, one he had thought far removed by time.

Pale Galathilion, scion of Telperion, grew tall and proud in the center of the Great Square of Tirion. The sky was dark without stars, for the light of Mindon Eldaliéva overwhelmed all others and cast the fair city into a dramatic chiaroscuro without the two trees to temper its radiance. On the highest step of Galathilion’s dais, Fëanor stood with his young blade pointed to the heavens and his sons arrayed about him. His voice rang out clear, silencing the gathered elves as he began to speak:

“Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,

brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,

Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,

Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,

neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,

dread nor danger, not Doom itself,

shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,

whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,

finding keepeth or afar casteth

a Silmaril. This swear we all:

death we will deal him ere Day's ending,

woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,

Eru Allfather! To the everlasting

Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.

On the holy mountain hear in witness

and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!”

The power of his words was a tangible thing, like a mighty galewind from the tempest of fate itself. The scrape of another sword leaving its sheathe startled Maedhros, who was yet shaken by the immediacy of this… vision. He reached for his own blade— but there was no scabbard on his right hip. He brought up his right arm in bemused realization, and stared at his hand for a brief moment while the rest of his brothers drew their swords after Curufin’s example. His was the last to be drawn.

If Fëanor’s voice was a bolt of lightning, clear and vivid and imprinting itself on the minds of all who beheld it, then the repetition by his sons was the rolling doom of thunder which trailed inevitably behind.

Maedhros held his blade high but said nothing, his silence lost in the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oath is what's written by Tolkien in The Annals of Aman, those are not my words a;sdlkfjdsf pls don't sue me


	2. Epiphany

Maedhros spent the next several moments expecting to dissolve in flames.

He'd done it. He'd realized what the rest of the world had realized long ago, and now he was absolved of the Oath. 

Now he would burn.

Wouldn't he?

This was just some dream-craft of Lórien, a test of his conviction, the result of thousands of years of dogged pursuit abruptly ending in unwarranted success. Any moment now, he would hit the bottom, and it would end. Simple.

But time dragged on in a distinctly linear, undreamlike fashion, and the only heat to be found was in Fëanor's head and lungs. And those of his sons, to be completely honest. Makalaurë quickly forgot his worry in favor of jumping into the debates with the rest of them, arguing with Fingolfin and Turgon, who were hard-pressed against the horde of Fëanorions, let alone the silver-tongued smith himself.

And that was the thing most eye-opening to Maedhros: his father. The Fëanor of his memories was angry and prideful and insane, using the powers of his voice to lure others into doing his bidding, hindsight brightening the mad glint in his eyes. He’d forgotten just how _convincing_ the elf was, how subtle, how his logic resonated so expertly as to cause one to think Fëanor’s ideas were really their own, simply unearthed by the arguments put to light. It made sense to forsake the Valar, whose inaction over the course of history had embittered Maedhros to them; it made sense to return to the East and see their ancestral lands, to eke out new kingdoms for themselves; it made sense to wage war against the greater power which had stolen the light of the trees in all its forms, and weren’t the Silmarils more than just gems, but rather symbolic of everything good which was now lost?

A holy war brewed on the summit of Túna, and even Maedhros was moved.

Maedhros looked around him, at Aman, at _Aman_ , so beautiful even his memories of it fell short of its divine truth. It saddened him not to see the light of the trees, but Tirion yet shone under the lamplight of Mindon Eldaliéva, and was radiant in its splendor.

He watched his brothers in their youthful ire. Children, the lot of them. They were all so stupid, back then. So blind and passionate about things they knew nothing about. Could they not see the bounty which surrounded them? Certainly, the sights of Arda were wondrous to behold, but not like this. Never like this.

It seemed they debated for hours, which was good for Maedhros, because… well, it might all be real after all. The chaos around him was un-dream-able. He held up _both_ his hands, an alien concept to a mind long-accustomed to just one, and the feel of the right was just as substantial as the feel of the left. He noticed small things, like imperfections in the stone underfoot, the microexpressions of reluctant agreement on Fingon’s face…

Maedhros slipped through the crowd to stand beside his dear friend, whose visage was eternally engraved on Maedhros’ mind. His hair may have been shorter, only reaching his shoulder blades presently, but he didn’t look all that different from when last they met, before… well. Before.

“What do you think, Findekáno?” Maedhros asked him, voice steady though his heart was full to bursting with joy at being able to ask this and receive an answer once more.

Fingon side-eyed him. “What, sniffing for disagreement already?” His tone was amused, though, so Maedhros took no offence.

“Nay, this place reeks of it. I’m simply curious.”

Fingon shrugged. “Your father is an ass.” Maedhros coughed to keep from doubling over in laughter, as he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. By Eru, he had missed that bluntness. Fingon the Valiant, indeed.

When he recovered Fingon continued, “But he’s got a point. Regardless of whatever long-game he thinks the Valar are playing, I too long to see Middle-Earth, and the idea of so many people suffering at the hands of a being that _we_ spurred into action… it doesn’t sit right with me. We ought to do something about it.”

This was the High King Maedhros recalled, ever ready to do what needed to be done and take responsibility for things that were not, in fact, even remotely caused by him. 

“We ought to,” Maedhros agreed, “but are we ready to?”

“You swore the oath, not me,” Fingon pointed out with a grin. “And conviction is the most important part, wouldn’t you say?”

Maedhros smiled and bit back the _‘Not really,’_ on the tip of his tongue. _‘Conviction is the most important part when you’re as honest and right a soul as yourself,’_ he wanted to say. _‘The rest of us would do well to doubt ourselves more.’_

Instead he just nodded, and worried.

Unfortunately for Fingolfin and Finarfin, time was the one thing Fëanor definitely had on his side. He used everyone’s exhaustion with the debates to his advantage, until a final plea for _reason_ and _deliberation_ by Finarfin resulted in the collective shout, “Nay, let us be gone!”

“Let us be gone!” Fëanor echoed, though he be the epicenter of the sentiment. “Gather yourselves, your houses! Take what you must, and let us be gone!”

The crowd dispersed, each elf going to do just that, and Maedhros parted from Fingon to join his family in returning to their household in Tirion proper. Maedhros marveled at the stonework, which he’d never thought to see again once left behind. In this house he’d been born, in these halls he had run and grown, between these walls he had been happy and safe and loved. He was last of his brothers to enter, and tarried in the forier. He reached out to one of the walls to feel it, to feel the physical presence of this place which was sacred in his mind.

“Maitimo? Is something wrong?”

Fëanor’s voice in gentleness was surprising, to say the least, this real manifestation once again at war with the mutated memories of Before.

“I am well,” he said with a faint smile. “Just a bit faint.”

“He was like this earlier,” Makalaurë piped up, having doubled back when he overheard Fëanor’s query.

Fëanor nodded. “It is understandable. The very air is ill with Melkor’s foul deeds, the darkness of it not yet abated. It is high time we set out from this place.” With that, he strode purposefully away.

His eldest sons watched him leave with mutual exasperation for the dramatics.

“I’d forgotten. This is why we don’t let him debate for too long,” Makalaurë sighed with a shake of his head. “He’ll be monologuing to us for weeks, now.”

Maedhros snorted and pushed away from the wall. “I certainly won’t be on _that_ boat, if I can help it.”

Maglor looked at him quizzically. “Boat?”

Maedhros blinked at him. Right, hindsight. Foresight? “How else are we to cross to Arda? There is naught but icy wastes to the north; we would not survive it.” Not all of them, anyway, and that was not a mistake he was willing to repeat. “Obviously, we go by boat.”

“You’re right. We should speak with the Teleri.” Maglor made after Fëanor, and Maedhros walked with him. “You’ve put much thought into this.”

 _‘An entire lifetime’s worth, one might say,’_ he neglected to tell his brother. “Some,” he agreed instead.

The two rejoined the rest of their family where they were gathered, unprompted, in the dining hall. They simply needed to follow the raised voices, because Fëanor, being in the mood he was, was already butting heads with—

“ _Ammë_ ,” Maedhros breathed, his heart bursting with sudden happiness and sadness and longing all at once. By Eru, he hadn’t felt this much in a day for centuries, between the Oath-that-wasn’t, Fingon, and now his mother… It was exhausting, and he didn’t know how Fëanor did it.

Nerdanel had been staying with Indis up to now, Maedhros recalled, having forgone entrapment in Formenos with her husband and children. But she had heard from Indis a bit of what transpired in the square, and had come swiftly to await Fëanor’s return to the household, intending to dissuade him from irrationality. So here she stood, feet shoulders-width apart, hands on her hips, ready to scold once Fëanor was done with his piece.

“I don’t give a damn what jewels you’re missing — and you can bet there’ll be more gone once I’m done with you — you are _not_ taking _my_ sons to some Valar-forsaken scrap of land across the fucking ocean.”

It was home at last. No one could compete with Fëanor’s word-smithing, of course, but Nerdanel’s passions, though slow to come forth, were an easy match for Fëanor’s once truly woken.

“ _Our_ sons have sworn the same oath,” he righteously informed her.

Nerdanel paled, and Maedhros wanted to throttle his father for putting that expression on her. “I will not see you throw yourselves to your deaths, so if you must do so, you might as well strike me dead where I stand. Because where I stand,” she approached Fëanor until they stood nose-to-nose, “is right between you and those Valar-damned gems.”

The hall was silent. The brothers glanced nervously amongst each other and to their quarreling parents, uncertain of what to do or what any mediation might accomplish.

Maedhros, however, had no such qualms. He’d seen far bloodier quarrels, in his time.

“It is our decision, _ammë_ ,” he found himself saying. “Our Oaths to swear. And it is not Silmarils we hunt, but justice. Melkor, twice-betrayer, has fled to Arda because of his,” he pointed to Fëanor, “interference. He is as a plague-carrying bird, and we the dogs that stirred him from the underbrush to land in a village of innocents. We must be held accountable.”

His brothers and father all blinked at him in wonderment. _Right, this had ended in tears when father said something really, really stupid last time_ , he realized. _I wonder how this will end._

Nerdanel just shook her head, desperation heavy in her eyes. “Do not go,” was all she said. 

“How could we not?” Maedhros answered.

Nerdanel’s shoulders slumped, and she staggered as if wounded to sit at the table. Caranthir, who was closest to her, rushed forward to pull out a seat for her, then stepped back, even his stoic face creased with worry. 

“Leave me,” she commanded, her head bowed. “Go and ready yourselves. Leave me.”

Her sons obeyed, Celegorm and Curufin first to leave, followed swiftly by the rest save for Maedhros. Even Fëanor departed, pausing briefly when he came near his eldest to squeeze his shoulder in acknowledgement of the assistance rendered. Then he was gone, before Maedhros’ eyes could give away the fact that his words were most assuredly _not_ for Fëanor’s sake.

When the footsteps were long faded, Maedhros rounded the table to take a seat beside his mother. A clenched fist lay on the table, and Maedhros covered it with his own hand.

“ _Ammë_ ,” he said softly, and his _fëa_ once more rejoiced at being in her presence after so long apart. “We must do this. We _must_ .” He, of them all, knew as such. He knew not if the Sindar would survive without their Noldorin compatriots; they knew so little of the danger that now resided in Middle-Earth, and Fingon was right even if he himself was not at fault. They _must_ take action against Morgoth.

“Then I will go with you,” she said, and Maedhros’ heart stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel: too good for Fëanor, by far. Also proficient in giving her sons heart attacks.  
> I love her.
> 
> I’m still debating on whether or not to go shippy with Maedhros and Fingon. They undoubtedly mean a lot to each other in my mind, but the cousins thing… puts me off it, ngl. Am I just over-thinking it? And, like, that’s just our cultural taboo, isn’t it? And only in recent American culture, really. Cousin marriages, historically, make up a vast amount of marriages. To tell the truth, reading the story of how Fingon rescued Maedhros in seventh grade, I wasn’t even entirely cognizant of the fact that they were cousins??? so my mind immediately went ‘HOW /ROMANTIC/ OH MY GOD’. And, like, they were raised in very, very separated households… (And this is where I tell myself: they’re fictional characters, numbnuts, and your protag has killed innocent fictional people and you’re writing a redemption arc for THAT but the cousins thing puts you off??? Christ on a motorcycle, morality is hard)  
> I think it’ll stay ambiguous for now — no judgement for whichever way you view it on my end, I just don’t know my own comfort level with these things. Opinions on this? Thoughts?
> 
> EDIT:  
> Conclusion: It's fictional, it's consensual, it's fanfic and fuck it — they're in love, I don't make the rules ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. Change

Fear was a distant thing, towards the end of his life.

It was all so immediate at the beginning. Everything happened rapidfire, hastened by Fëanor's urging — Maedhros had felt true terror when Ungoliant came to Aman and her darkness consumed the land, and then he was afraid for his life during Alqualondë (then for his soul in the aftermath), and then the ships were burning at Losgar and he was afraid for what halving their forces would mean in battle against Morgoth, and then they  _ were _ in battle against Morgoth and his father was  _ dead _ and he was High King on a continent he'd only heard tales of, duty-bound to carry on his father's legacy, but even  _ that _ nightmare didn't last long before the biggest one started at Sauron's hand in the pits of hell.

If anything, hanging on a cliff was a bit of a breather from the rest of his troubles. There were no expectations to fall short of on that mountain. And once he was rescued, each battle that followed saw a bleaker and bleaker existence unfold before him, one where immortality meant nothing when it came to losing loved ones, and many (though not all) of the loved ones who survived gradually twisted into broken, grotesque mockeries of their past selves.

Once Fingon was gone, there was nothing left for Maedhros to fear for. The worst had already come to pass.

This washed over him all at once where he sat hand in hand with his mother, his  _ ammë _ . He hadn't yet gotten the chance to sit down and contemplate his current situation — he hadn't the beginnings of a working theory for how this second chance was even possible.

Old fears were dulled by the grindstone of time, but this was different. The thought of Nerdanel in Arda, Nerdanel witnessing her husband's death (for she loved him still, Maedhros knew), Nerdanel dying any manner of death he knew from experience to be possible—

Old and hardened as he was, Maedhros found himself very much capable of new fear.

"No," he said sharply, perhaps harshly, perhaps a bit too telling, but he didn't care. "What aid would you bring, when your heart is not in the venture? When Morgoth came to Formenos… it was horrific beyond words. You know not what you suggest."

Nerdanel should have been angry with him for that, he thought, but she had ever been patient with her sons. "Perhaps I did not see our foe for myself, but I know this deeds. And my heart most certainly  _ is _ in the venture — all eight pieces of it."

Maedhros could sense her warming to the idea, and he recalled how often Fëanor's naysaying spurred her on to more determinedly settle into her position. By the Valar, he had already worsened things, and just by attempting to help! How to dissuade her, now?

"Who all has cast their lot with him?" She asked.

Maedhros danced around his foreknowledge again. "The greater part of the Noldor," he told her. In a few hours, they would discover Fingolfin and Finarfin's decisions on whether or not to follow their people or leave them under Fëanor's 'care'.

"And you would have me stay, when my people depart?" 

"I would," he said, panic keeping his thoughts from ordering themselves. "Do you see the haste with which everything moves? Rash decisions are being made left and right, contemplation thrown to the wind — I would not go myself, were I not sworn to it." He hated the lie the second it tripped off his tongue, but there it went.

Nerdanel sat back, astounded. "What is this? Doubt, dare I say _ regret, _ from a Fëanorion?"

Maedhros spoke past the lump in his throat. "Nerdanelion foremost, in my heart."

She opened her hand to hold his own, squeezed it tight. "For that alone, I would never forgive myself if I stayed."

Maedhros wondered, then, if that had been her fate Before. If Nerdanel had stayed, alone and hurting and with no idea what befell the eight pieces of her heart. He suddenly couldn't bring himself to argue further, even knowing what might happen. He well knew that a life without such pieces was hardly a life worth living.

"Father will be happy," he relented, smiling softly.

Nerdanel snorted. "Not that he'll recognize it at first, but yes, I imagine he will."

They both rose from the table and separated, each to prepare for the road ahead. Maedhros made for his old chambers, and halted in the doorway once he reached them, struck by the strangeness of being there. He shook himself from the daze and started packing — more wisely than his brothers and past self, certainly. Being on the road was just like hunting, really. One brought the essentials and nothing more, certainly no fine wear or burdensome trinkets for the sake of sentimentality. He couldn't even remember the sentiment behind most of the baubles he came across — gifts from various family and friends, crafting projects of his youth, all abandoned the first time and all to be abandoned a second.

He did pause, though, when his gaze caught on the title of a book which lay haphazard on a shelf.  _ Tales of Cuiviénen _ . A children's book, all the folklore and history of the time before the Trees rendered in simplistic rhymes and colorful drawings. He hadn't given it even a first glance his first time packing, but thought of it often when enticing Elrond and Elros to go to bed…

He grabbed it before he could overthink it, wrapping it carefully in some clothes to protect it from wear. He determinedly avoided the unwarranted image of  _ ammë _ , book on her lap and a brown-haired child leaning on each shoulder, reading the stories aloud as the two little ones traced illustrations with eager fingers just as Maedhros and his brothers had done. He  _ avoided _ the image, staunchly. With any luck, Elrond and Elros would be raised by their true parents, this time around.

The notion did not pain him, in any way.

Maedhros went to the dining hall once more, the rest of them trickling in one by one until Nerdanel and Fëanor strode in, side by side, like they weren't near blows an hour before. Nerdanel looked determined, and Fëanor smug. They'd most certainly come to rights with one another, for now.

"Disperse now to the greatest houses," Fëanor told his sons, "and spread word that we march north, in Morgoth's wake."

Maedhros had given some thought to this, in the brief time he had been given, and knew what he intended to do to keep at least the kinslaying from happening as it did Before. 

"We cannot follow the tracks of a Vala, the land is fey." Maedhros opened a map he had at the ready, unrolling it onto the table for his father to see. "There is nothing to hunt in the far north. The way is treacherous. We need ships; we must buy them from Olwë."

Fëanor bent over the map, considering it with studiously narrowed eyes. A moment later, he nodded. "Ships would most certainly be faster. But will the Teleri part with them?"

"If we convince them of our need and can give in return something of equal value, I'm certain they could be persuaded." Maedhros prayed to every Valar, by name, that he was right. All he had to do was slow negotiations, and they might gradually convince the Teleri of their plight. Fëanor would have more patience, as well, both with Nerdanel's support and the knowledge that his following's fervor was fresh, not at risk of degrading into doubt after several weeks' pointless meandering.

Fëanor nodded once in finality. "Then we make for Alqualondë."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our home boy is flying by the seat of his pants, y'all
> 
> I know this seems like a complete 180 from Nerdanel's characterization in canon, but I swear it's not ooc. In my mind, what Maedhros walked in on would have been the pivotal argument where Nerdanel and Fëanor fight, say things they both regret to the end of their days, and each put their foot down on divergent paths. Nerdanel is a patient soul, willing and able to understand others' perspectives — thus, she understood the draw in everyone's heart to seek revenge against Morgoth and forge new lives for themselves away from Aman and the Valar. But Fëanor put his foot in it, last time. Maedhros never saw this sympathetic side of his mother, and thus didn't know what he was stirring through his well-meaning interference.


	4. Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s my disclaimer that I don’t own ANY of these characters, nor do I make a profit off them beyond enjoyment of being a Tolkien fan — I’m saying this ‘cause the dialogue at the beginning of this chapter is paraphrased directly from the Silmarillion, page 92 in my copy of it, in “The Flight of the Noldor”.

As Before, Fingolfin and Finarfin and their respective houses gathered themselves to join Fëanor’s campaign. Maedhros was amused to find Fingon’s words from earlier the perfect distillation of his entire house’s opinion on the matter:  _ “Your father is an ass. But he’s got a point.” _

The Noldor rallied at the gates of Tirion. Even as the horns rang out, a messenger of Manwë appeared before them, blocking their path with a form far greater than the height of any eldar, whose six wings and fourteen eyes seemed to refract and multiply the light of Mindon Eldaliéva threefold.

“Against the folly of Fëanor shall I counsel only,” it boomed, and the Noldor trembled before it, though Fëanor seemed to tremble only with fury. “Go not forth! For the hour is evil, and your road leads to sorrow that you do not foresee. No aid will the Valar lend you in this quest; but neither will they hinder you, for this you must know: as you came here freely from Middle-Earth, freely shall you depart to it. But Fëanor son of Finwë, by his own Oath, is exiled, as are all who so swore. You will unlearn the lies of Melkor in bitterness. You say he is Vala — then you have sworn in vain, for there is not one Valar whom you can overcome now or ever within the walls of Eä, unless Eru who you swore by truly made you thrice greater than you are.”

Maedhros, who was still only beginning to adjust to the reality of his father as opposed to the crazed king of his memory, now found himself seeing such skewed vision in the flesh. Fëanor laughed at the herald, while all the rest of the Noldor were incapable of speech. He turned his  _ back _ on it as well, and said, “So! Will this valiant people send forth the heir of their King alone into banishment, with only his sons, returned to their bondage as in Formenos?”

His boldness saw life return to the elves, many of whom cried aloud, “Nay!”

Fëanor smiled. “If any will come with me, I ask them if they are as exhausted with sorrow and loss as I. For in Aman we have had our fill! In Aman we have come through bliss to woe. The other now we will try: through sorrow to find joy — or freedom, at the least!”

Then he turned to the herald and told it, “Say this to Manwë Súlimo, High King of Arda: If I cannot overthrow Morgoth, at least I delay not to assail him, and do not sit idle in my grief. And it may be that Eru has set in me a fire greater than you know! Such hurt, at the least, will I do to the Foe of the Valar that even the mighty in the Ring of Doom shall wonder to hear it. Yea, in the end  _ they  _ will follow  _ me _ . Farewell!”

The power in Fëanor's voice was unmatched. Even the herald recognized his authority and bowed low in acknowledgement of his decision, drawing awed gasps from the crowd. Then the herald was gone, as suddenly as it appeared, and the Noldor spilled from the gates of Tirion.

Maedhros walked with his brothers, but his mind lingered at the scene which had just played out. He was no longer banished from Valinor, for one, unless the Valar could see into the vast history-yet-to-pass in his mind— but no, he had dissolved the Oath's sway over him. He was released, and thereby free to return.

And his father and brothers were not yet Doomed. They had time before Mandos came to them, and if the kinslaying never happened, perhaps the Doom would be different.

Or even non-existent.

As relieving a thought as this was, Maedhros remained troubled. He now recognized the irony of the exchange. The Valar were, indeed, the only ones proven capable of overcoming Morgoth — and to do so they really did follow Fëanor to Middle-Earth, after a fashion. It was eerie. Maedhros wondered despairingly just what it would take to urge the Valar into action this time around, if the elves of Beleriand had to lose almost everything Before.

A sudden tug on his hair brought Maedhros back to the present, where he found himself surrounded by Ambarussa.

“Why so glum, Maitimo?” Amras questioned, his eyes clear like they never were again after Losgar.

“You’ve a stormcloud caught in your hair,” Amrod piped up, tugging at the same lock. “I’m trying to get it out—”

“With your clumsy fingers?” Makalaurë chimed in. “Watch yourself, Nelyo, the boy couldn’t play a chord on a five-course lute—”

Amrod gave up pestering Maedhros in favor of running at Makalaurë, and Maedhros suddenly remembered the disastrous music lesson which had birthed several decades of ribbing at Amrod’s expense — all because he wanted to impress some Vanyarin girl.

It was never brought up, after Amrod died. Amras went silent, and Makalaurë’s eyes went cold.

Maedhros was poked in the cheek.

He glared halfheartedly down at Amras, whose face was the picture of innocence. “It’s not like we haven’t been exiled before,” he pointed out. “This is just a little more… permanent.”

He’d forgotten how much the twins took after Nerdanel. They were the kindest of them all, and Amras had spent the rest of his days hunting unless called to take part in whatever schemes his older brothers came up with to fulfill the Oath. Maedhros had gotten him killed for his loyalty.

“It is not that which worries me. I believe we will have a difficult time of it convincing Olwë and his people to part with their ships.”

Amras tilted his head. “They’re just boats.”

Maedhros smiled grimly. “And the Silmarils are just gems.”

Amras blinked. “Ah.” His attention was caught by the antics of his twin, who was now attempting to tie bits of leaves and grass to the ends of Makalaurë’s hair while the musician chatted with a nearby elf. “We could promise them a Silmaril in return?”

Maedhros shook his head, fondly exasperated. “Go distract Makalaurë, Atya’ is slow with his knotwork.”

Amras nodded in agreement and bounded over to engage with Makalaurë even as the elf he was talking to noticed Amrod’s project. The elf must have been familiar with Fëanorion rivalry, however, and immediately turned back to the conversation at hand as though Makalaurë’s hair were not being decorated with plant detritus.

Maedhros shook his head again and had a hard time convincing himself that they all really were full-grown.

It was two days’ trek to Alqualondë, by Maedhros’ reckoning — but as days were not yet a thing, and elves were ever a determined lot, it was a distance Fëanor was determined to cover in one go. Those of Fëanor’s house easily outpaced the rest of the Noldor in their eagerness; Fingolfin’s people followed, spearheaded by Fingon; and Finarfin’s folk followed yet further behind, in clear reluctance.

He’d forgotten how nearly  _ festive _ the front of the caravan was. Certainly, the loss of the Trees and Finwë’s death grieved them all — but Noldor were ever fond of new things, and with the fire of Fëanor’s persuasion recently kindled in their hearts, there was an ambiance of excitement that electrified the air.

Amrod and Amras fed off it, generally doing their best to cause mayhem for the sake of entertainment on the long road. This was largely encouraged by everyone around them, as they were the ones being entertained. (It took hours for someone to finally inform Makalaurë of his new… adornments. The cry of  _ “Ambarussa!” _ that followed could be heard from half a mile off.)

Maedhros stayed focused on the task at hand, however. He could not allow his father’s impatience to result in tragedy once more, not when he could foresee and prevent it. He spoke with Fëanor and Nerdanel most of the walk, as well as various advisors, all in the effort to prepare them to be as diplomatically-minded as possible once they began discussion with the Teleri.

They marched down into the valley, through the foothills, and at long last were greeted by the smell of salt air, the endless crash of waves on the shore, the sight of a city gleaming in torchlight under the stars. Lantern-lit swan-ships bobbed on the waves, each one a work of art unique to the hand which made it.

They began their descent to Alqualondë, and Maedhros readied himself for the shifting of fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to cut myself off there for this chapter in order to devote the outcome of Alqualondë to a chapter in its own right. So, yeah, cliffhanger — sorry!
> 
> I’m going with the version of canon where Amrod is the younger and Amras the older (though not by much, obviously, they’re twins), and Amrod burned at Losgar. Y’all did see the tag about tragic redheads, right?
> 
> (Also, I pulled those distances out of my ass — who the fuck knows how far Alqualondë is from Tirion? Not me, that’s for sure. And, hey, if an elf can survive hanging off a freaking cliff for thirty years… they got STAMINA, my dudes.)
> 
> The story about the music lesson goes that Amrod approached Maglor one day, asking if Maglor could teach him to play an instrument. Maglor decided on a five-course lute, thinking it would be simple enough for a beginner. Only, Amrod was young and had absolutely no comprehension of how it worked, hadn’t ever really paid attention to musicians when they were playing, was only doing this because the girl he had a crush on said she liked music ONCE — and, being a competent hunter, Amrod did the first thing that came to mind when handed something with strings:  
> He pulled them. Hard.  
> Strings broke, Maglor yelled, Amrod freaked out, the entire household heard the clamor and laughed their asses off once they realized what had happened.


	5. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for PTSD, mention of past attempted suicide, mention of past torture, dissociation  
> To avoid, stop reading at 'Maedhros laid in bed...' and just know that Mae had a hard time going to sleep

The timing of Before had been such that the hosts of the Noldor were freshly-woken and walked only a mile before reaching the Haven of the Swans. Now, coming to the city after a long march, Maedhros would have an excuse at the ready with which to delay things. Furthermore, the three separate parties which made up the caravan were not as stratified, thus the house of Fingolfin was right on their heels — and Maedhros knew Fingon would never knowingly lead a charge in support of the foulest of Fëanor’s purposes. This nearness also meant Finarfin was close at hand, as well. Finarfin on better terms with Olwë than his brothers, having married Eärwen Olwiel, so if Maedhros could somehow introduce his uncle to the discussion, things might just swing in their favor. At the very least, he knew Finarfin would be an advocate for prolonged deliberations.

Maedhros was not, however, able to dissuade Fëanor from attempting to recruit the Teleri to their cause. He should not know for a fact, after all, that they would be stringently opposed to the very notion and thereby deaf to his father’s word-smithing — so he had limited arguments to work with, and they did not hold up in the face of Fëanor’s fervor. For he had behind him Fingolfin and Finarfin, who had also been opposed in the beginning. Overconfidence bore him ever onward.

Alqualondë was a sprawling, gateless city, beautiful and lawless like the sea it crowned. The Noldor’s approach was noted long before they arrived, and the Teleri flooded out to greet them with Olwë and his house at the crest of the wave. He and Fëanor embraced as kin, and Maedhros braced himself.

Fëanor was as impressive as ever, speaking as he did in Tirion. But every word fell wrongly on the Teleri. Every reason was off its mark. Swiftly, his grandiose speech devolved into heavy debate, principally between himself and Olwë — and Maedhros wondered just what it was that caused it to go badly even quicker than it had Before.

Maedhros stepped forward before Fëanor’s anger could turn to words that would decimate their chances at diplomacy.

“My lords, I think it would be best to withhold further discourse until our people, at least, have rested. The road has been long, and even longer for the grief and terror which preceded it. Food and sleep, I think, would go far in helping us to reach a conclusion agreeable to all.”

Olwë and Fëanor stepped back from one another, as if waking from a dream. Olwë nodded, his shoulders already dropping from their former rigidity. “Your eldest is wise beyond his years, son of my dear friend Finwë. A bad host am I, to quarrel with my guests on the threshold! Come and find rest in our city, which you Noldor helped to design. Let us think on the light of friendship first, in these times of darkness.”

It was a veiled reminder of all that the Noldor had to lose in giving up Aman, and Fëanor saw it too. But his initial strategy had failed, and even he occasionally thought to regroup when things did not go as planned.

“Gladly will we partake in your hospitality,” Fëanor relented with a slight bow. His face, however, betrayed the unhappiness behind this concession.

So the Noldor entered Alqualondë with sheathed swords, and it took all of Maedhros’ strength of will to keep from grinning madly on the way in.

Every city of Aman was too big for its own citizenry, for peace between the kindreds meant much intermingling — but no city was prepared for visiting on this scope, with the whole of the Teleri and the greater part of the Noldor all in one place. Many of the Noldor chose to sleep outside the city and under the stars as they had done before coming to Valinor. They would do so once they reached Middle-Earth, after all.

The family of Finwë was, of course, welcome to stay in the guest quarters of Olwë’s house. They feasted together, the houses of Olwë, Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin all — Maedhros was giddy with victory as he watched Finarfin take up Olwë’s attention, fast friends as they were.

Telerin feasts were far more relaxed than those of the Vanyar and Noldor, as well. One was not given a seating arrangement a week prior to the event, as was the Vanyarin custom, and one was not expected to correctly guess the seating arrangement based on the rank of everyone present, as was the Noldorin custom. In fact, the wise Teleri bypassed the idea of a seating arrangement entirely, and expected everyone who dined at their table to do the same. If even the lowliest Noldo (unwisely) decided they ought to be able to sit beside Fëanor himself, they were welcome to do so.

To make matters all the more interesting, Telerin tables were perfectly round, thereby erasing the existence of the head of the table. And no chairs were marked, either, with everyone simply sitting at whatever place suited them best at the moment.

Maedhros was of a mind that the Teleri enforced their customs just for the sake of watching the other kindreds squirm.

Regardless, this left Maedhros free to take his place at Fingon’s side, which surprised no one yet brought him more joy than anyone present could know.

Makalaurë took the seat on Maedhros’ other side and immediately commented, “That certainly could have gone better.”

Maedhros blinked, having forgotten that the others might think as such. “It could have gone worse, as well.”

Fingon laughed in disbelief. “I thought your father was fit to strike Olwë, towards the end!”

“But he did not,” Maedhros pointed out with an inane smile.

“Indeed.” Maedhros looked back at his brother, who watched him strangely. “It is well you stepped between them when you did.”

“Quite!” Fingon blithely agreed.

“You’ve become quite the mediator, of late,” Makalaurë continued. “I never knew you had it in you.”

Maedhros just smiled and knew he needed to be more careful with his interference.

They spent the rest of the dinner on easier topics for conversation. Gossip, mostly, thanks to Fingon and Makalaurë both — Fingon had always been nosy, and Makalaurë was just highly sociable. Maedhros concentrated on eating with his right hand as if he didn’t have to concentrate on it, and basked in the presence of Fingon’s cheerful, hand-waving mannerisms.

When the feast drew to a close, the Noldor were escorted to their rooms. Maedhros and Makalaurë walked with Fingon and Turgon most of the way, and the Fingolfinions dropped off at their shared quarters first. Further along were he and Makalaurë’s shared quarters, and the two only then realized how exhausted they truly were once the door was shut and naught but a solitary flame was left to stimulate their eyes.

Maedhros laid in bed, the dark and the comfort coaxing his body into slumber, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to close his eyes just yet.

This would be the first that he slept since awakening in this renewed world.

He recalled his own acceptance of the end: stepping off the cliff, falling, and then _not_ falling and _not_ swearing the oath — and then very much _not_ dying in flames, to his own surprise.

The doubt crept in once more. If he closed his eyes, would they open again? Or was this yet a dream of Lórien, and he was simply too quick to dismiss the notion?

Or worse. Might he open his eyes to find Sauron’s grinning face over him, or perhaps that unchanging view from Thangorodrim? He had to admit that, as far as torture went, this would be the maia’s most effective yet. Allowing him to glimpse what could have been, allowing him to see Fingon whole and well and without the guilt of an involuntarily committed kinslaying on his noble shoulders. He’d endured hallucinations from Sauron before, but none quite so realistic.

Maedhros ground his teeth and wrapped his left hand around his right, digging his nails in a bit to feel the clear sensation of pain emanating from his previously-lost limb.

No. Perhaps it was a dream, a hallucination, a last hope before he met his end or awoke to find the end not as near as he would like — but it was a gift, as well. A gift to see Fingon’s smile, to hold a conversation with him, to see his mother one last time. To know that, given the chance, he could learn from his failures and those of his kin. That he was capable of good.

Whatever he woke to, be it the Halls of Mandos or the depths of Angband or the heights of Thangorodrim, he would wake with hope beating anew in his chest.

Maedhros closed his eyes, and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol don’t worry, this isn’t a ‘it was all a dream and none of it really happened!!!’ fic. He’s just having a hard time of it.  
> Not gonna lie, this chapter went in a totally different direction than I had expected it to go. Maybe someday I’ll stick with my plans... but not this day. This day, Maedhros has /feelings/


	6. Trial

He did not sleep for long.

Maedhros was shaken awake what felt like only a few hours into his rest. The sight of a dark figure over him sent an electric bolt of fear down his spine—

Yet it quickly moved off to Makalaurë’s bed, and then Fëanor’s clear voice rang out in the darkness:

“Come, help me wake your brothers.”

The identity of this shade did nothing to calm Maedhros’ terror. Instead of madness and pain being inflicted on him, it was him inflicting it on others, red blood spilled on white stone.

“Do we continue the discussions, already?” he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold. He knew the answer.

“Summon your brothers to the courtyard,” was all Fëanor said, and then he was gone.

“To where?” Makalaurë belatedly queried in a sleep-sodden voice — he’d never been good with mornings.

Maedhros breathed deeply. He stared sightlessly into the dark room even as Makalaurë groaned and stumbled out of his own bed, heedless of the decisions that lay before them.

Makalaurë lit a candle, and paused.

“Maitimo? What is it?”

Maedhros scrubbed a hand over his face and found himself incapable of looking his brother in the eye.

How could he have failed, so completely?

No, he hadn’t failed. Not yet. This could be something else. It could be that Fëanor summoned them so early in order to ensure they were all working off the same strategy, influencing the right people—

But _all_ of his sons?

Maedhros shook his head and rose to his feet. Now was not the time to speculate. He needed to _know_ , for certain, just what it was his father was planning.

“Come, Makalaurë,” he finally responded, and began to dress. “We must wake our brothers.”

Makalaurë made no more comments on his odd behavior — likely because he was not given the chance. Once dressed, Maedhros charged out of the room and went systematically down the hall, impatiently rousing his brothers and urging them to hurry. When they were assembled, he led them to where Fëanor waited out in the house’s courtyard, which was open to the sea, as the house of Olwë curved around it like a crescent moon.

“What is this about, father?” Celegorm was the first to ask, being rather irritated at his rude awakening. Maedhros, for his part, was speechless with warring dread and hope.

“Olwë’s will is set against us, as is the will of all the Teleri,” said Fëanor, and the hope quickly shattered.

Maedhros spoke as steadily as he could. “What do you mean by that? Surely, in time—”

“There is no time!” Fëanor cut him off. “With every passing moment, Olwë’s sway over Finarfin and Fingolfin’s houses grows greater. In this city, the Noldor recall what it is to be safe, to be among friends they must part with. Olwë will not stop at keeping his own from following us — he seeks to keep the Noldor here as well, for he, too, is blinded by the will of the Valar.”

"If a bit of contemplation would crumble an elf's resolve, would you truly want him a part of your campaign?" Maedhros argued. “If the truth of their hearts is that they would not seek to follow us, let them stay! They are not foresworn!”

“We have _seen_ the truth,” Fëanor growled, approaching Maedhros. “The truth is the negligence of the Valar. The truth is how, by their will, we should do _nothing_ to avenge our King. The truth is the Oath which _we_ have sworn. The truth is that Olwë, that all the Teleri, would seek to _blind_ our people to the truth of their hearts, and so they stand against us. They stand between ourselves and the Silmarils.” He looked around to all of his sons, then, who watched on solemnly. “Gather our house and crew the ships,” he commanded.

“You have no more right to those ships than Morgoth has to the Silmarils,” Maedhros spat.

Everyone stared, and Maedhros realized his mistake. It was an overreaction, in their eyes, or a betrayal — stealing ships didn’t equate to taking lives, like it did for Maedhros, because they didn’t know what stealing the ships would mean.

Though, Fëanor might. He hadn’t seemed shocked at all, the first time around, when Teleri shoving Noldor overboard turned into Noldor running Teleri through with steel.

Maedhros had to rally, had to prove he was on their side, had to—

“That is what Olwë would say, and Finarfin and Fingolfin would agree, and we would lose them anyway,” Makalaurë jumped in, and Maedhros ran with it.

“If you force their hand, you will lose the allies you seek to keep.”

Fëanor regarded his two eldest for a moment, before a cold smile broke over his face. “Yet it is as you said: those of poor resolve should have no place at our sides. You have enlightened me with this, and I thank you for it. But Olwë will not stop with my half-brothers’ houses, for he seeks the retention of all who dwell in Aman, save for those irrefutably exiled. All in our house would follow us across the sea, for they are true and loyal. How could I return such loyalty with abandonment? We are not Finwions if we betray our people by departing these shores without them, leaving them kingless. This is our only course of action, for we are honorbound to our people and the Silmarils alike — in keeping our people from freedom by delaying our voyage, and thereby allowing Morgoth time to strengthen himself for our coming, Olwë moves to keep the Silmarils from us. I shed no tears in parting him from his ships, as it is only just.”

All around were nods of agreement, and Maedhros had no idea what to do.

“Crew the ships,” Fëanor commanded once more and turned away from Maedhros. He strode back into Olwë’s house, followed by his sons. Celegorm and Curufin both gave Maedhros haughty looks as they passed by; Caranthir was stoic, which spoke volumes of his indecision on the matter; Amrod and Amras each seemed cowed, giving Maedhros apologetic glances before they, too, followed their father; and Makalaurë remained unreadable, though he did not move to walk away.

In fact, when Maedhros himself made to leave the courtyard, Makalaurë asked him, “Where do you go?”

Maedhros turned and looked at him questioningly, and Makalaurë rolled his eyes in that dignified-Noldorin-prince manner of his. 

“Clearly, you have no intention of doing as father says. So, where do you go?”

“To wake mother,” Maedhros answered, mostly out of shock.

Makalaurë frowned. “Is that all?”

Maedhros shook his head. “If force is all he will heed, I must find force enough to stop him.”

The look Makalaurë gave him was long and searching. At length, he simply nodded. “Go summon this force. I will wake mother and inform her what father intends.”

Maedhros foresaw a weighty conversation in the near future. For now, though, he bowed in acknowledgement and thanks before jogging off into the house.

He retraced his steps to his own temporary room, and then further to another set of guest quarters. He rapped on the door with a heavy hand, and it took great effort to refrain from simply barging in. He doubted the inhabitants would think kindly of it.

A moment later — which felt like an Age come and gone to his rattled mind — a yawning Fingon opened the door, still in his sleep clothes. He blinked blearily up at Maedhros.

“Maitimo? What is it?”

“Forgive me, I would not be here if it weren’t urgent.” Maedhros breathed once, in and out, before continuing. “My father means to abscond with the swan-ships, and if he succeeds in trying it will result in the death of hundreds. I need you to help me stop him. I need you to take up arms against my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A round of applause for Maedhros “can’t-catch-a-break” Fëanorion, ladies and gentlemen. And it all seemed to be going so well, too...  
> As you can see, Alqualondë is... extending itself over my expected timeframe. It be like that sometimes.


	7. Tailwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a couple days since I posted — sorry for the week of spamming followed by sudden silence, I've been actually doing my schoolwork lmao

In war, information is everything.

If something is unclear, contingencies must be put in place, for assumptions mean death.

Maedhros knew this, damn it all, yet he had still allowed assumptions to cloud his understanding — but no more. He needed to think it through and, Eru willing, come up with a solution that would satisfactorily avoid a massacre.

The board state was as follows:

Olwë and his people were currently unwilling to part with their ships or even assist the Noldor in building their own. They were willing to discuss the matter of the Noldor’s departure. Notably, Olwë did not yet know of Fëanor’s intention to steal the ships. The Teleri outnumbered the Noldor of Fëanor’s house—

“What does that matter?” Fingon interjected, and Maedhros paused in his pacing.

“Trust me,” said Maedhros. “It matters.”

After his highly unanticipated awakening, Fingon had immediately dragged Maedhros inside, shut the door, crossed his arms, and commanded, “Explain.” This had thrown Maedhros centuries back, to long hours spent in counsel poring over maps, debating logistics, and arguing about everything under the Sun and Moon in their bid to get it  _ right _ , this Union, this final push against Morgoth. The Fingon who stood before him now was young, unweathered by the Helcaraxë or the death of his father or any of the other thousand hammer strokes which had chiseled away at his happiness and shaped him into a legendary High King — yet he was Fingon, nevertheless, bright and bold and ever ready to do what was necessary. So Maedhros fell into old habits, and began to lay it out for him.

“They outnumber Fëanor’s house,” Maedhros continued. “As for your father and Finarfin, they are willing to follow my father across the ocean. They are also, as of yet, unaware of the ship-stealing.”

“Who’s stealing ships?”

Maedhros swallowed back the impatient curses dancing on his tongue. “My father, Turukáno. Or at least, he intends to.” He’d been wondering if Turgon would wake, or simply sleep through the entire ordeal. “And yes, we intend to stop him. Now keep quiet and listen.”

Turgon, from where he lay blinking in the dim light, bemusedly snapped his mouth shut and gestured for them to continue.

“My father is willing to return to Middle-Earth without anyone save his own house. He is willing to steal ships to do so, for he is unwilling to wait any longer than is absolutely necessary for us to be away.

“That is the stage which is set before us. Now, if Olwë, Finarfin, and your father discover my father’s attempt to steal the ships, they and their peoples will stand against him. That is the confrontation which  _ must _ be avoided.”

Fingon frowned at him. “But surely the truth must out! Olwë, at the very least, deserves to know what wrong is being done to him.”

Maedhros shook his head. “Fëanor has drawn his sword against your father once before already, and when Fingolfin was unarmed no less. Believe me when I say he would not hesitate to do so against Olwë. He is inflamed with the need to cross to Middle-Earth, for every moment of delay means the strengthening of his Enemy. And with the Oath as justification, he will use whatever means necessary.”

“But he need not even keep the ships in order to use them!” Fingon growled, throwing his hands in the air in frustration.

Maedhros’ mind stalled. “What?”

Fingon’s hands came to land on his hips. “Turukáno and I were discussing the predicament, last night, and we came upon a solution, which we  _ intended _ to bring up at the discussions. If your father weren’t so—”

“What solution?” Maedhros interrupted, breathless. “Findekáno, speak plainly.”

Fingon exhaled in a short burst before explaining, “It only takes so many to crew a ship, does it not? And the Teleri are quite adept at it, all they would need is the bare minimum of skilled mariners necessary, and then the rest of the passengers could be Noldor. In this manner, the Teleri could ferry the Noldor across, this resulting in no delay and no loss of ships, for the mariners could simply sail themselves back. Only, the Teleri would have to be convinced, first…”

Maedhros wanted to laugh. He wanted to kiss Fingon breathless. He wanted to weep for the heartache and death which had been wrought Before all because Fëanor hadn’t granted anyone, let alone himself, the  _ time _ necessary to just think it through.

“A ferry system,” was all he said, a mad grin creeping its way onto his face. He turned to Turgon and said, “Remain here. If we do not return within the hour, go to your father and explain to him everything. Should my father yet refuse to see reason, he will see force — and perchance he will bow to it, though such has never been his precedent.” And then he left, calling out, “Fingon, with me!” over his shoulder.

The two hurried through the house, out into Alqualondë, and beyond to where the Noldor camped outside the city. The greater part of Fëanor’s house was there, for they were most eager to return to Middle-Earth as pioneers.

Maedhros and Fingon needed only follow the excitement of the stirring crowd, once there, and they were led to a familiar scene taking place in quite an unfamiliar setting.

“—madness! Your arguments are silver coating on piles of  _ dung _ , and you know it.”

Nerdanel and Fëanor rarely fought so publically, yet Maedhros was unsurprised by his mother’s decision to do so in this instance.

“You speak of things you do not understand,” Fëanor told her haughtily. “I do not blame you for your blindness, for long have you been in the company of the Vanyar, who sit doggedly at the Valar’s feet. Yet blindness it is; this I cannot ignore. The urgency of our purpose is obvious most especially to the Oathbound, myself and your sons, and we have not the time to spend debating in circles when the hour of action is already upon us.”

“If ‘blind’ is the term for anyone who sees different from yourself, then may the whole of Eä claim it! My fortune is indeed poor, to be a blind elda who married a thief,” Nerdanel parried, riposted, and struck true.

It was then that Maedhros and Fingon were noticed. He heard it in the sudden susurrus that rippled through the crowd, heard it the exclamations of his brothers, saw it in Nerdanel’s startled expression as she beheld the pair. Fëanor’s back was to them, initially, but then he turned — and if he had been angry before, he was perfectly enraged, now.

“The disloyalty of my family knows no bounds, it seems,” he said, heated.

Before he could get going, Maedhros responded, “Heed us well, father, for we are not your Enemy. This desperate act will bring naught but ill fortune and ruin to all who participate. Well do I know how Olwë stays our voyage; and well do I know the Oath that drives you to such lengths, for I too am sworn to it.” Here, he thought back to Before, to when he and Maglor sacked Eonwë’s camp, and to the wise words Maglor had offered in his attempt to sway Maedhros from such blatant thievery. “But the Oath says not that we may not bide our time. While time is of the essence, now, a united front is even more so. And there is a way to be quick in our departure to Middle-Earth without irreparably shattering the Noldorin host.”

This, at last, seemed to pique his father’s interest, if it did not quell his ire.

Fingon took this as his cue, and stepped forward with a slight bow. “My king,” he wisely began. “If the Teleri should agree to it, there could be an arrangement drawn up for the Teleri to ferry the Noldor across the water. There would be enough expert mariners aboard for them to be able to return to Aman, thus the ships would remain with the Teleri while the Noldor crossed to Middle-Earth.”

Fëanor narrowed his eyes at them while the noise of the crowd rose, for he could no longer enforce his desperate plan. Not when one more honorable presented itself.

...Only, he seemed more assessing than immediately contrary, and Maedhros couldn’t keep hope from blossoming in his chest.

“Yet would Olwë be willing to even discuss the possibility, knowing what lengths we would go to?” It was Nerdanel who spoke this time, coming to stand beside her husband, who in turn looked at her with widening eyes.

“But he doesn’t know. Nor does my father, and they  _ will _ not,” Fingon reassured.

At length, Fëanor spoke. “And we are to trust the word of one so quick to betray his own father?”

Maedhros stepped forward to counter him, but was halted by Fingon’s hand on his shoulder

“Would you rather I betray my king?” Maedhros looked at Fingon, astounded. He continued, “Whatever enmity lay between yourself and my father, may it be dissolved. Fingolfin does not wish for the crown, only your ear. Even Finwë took counsel when it was needed.”

Fëanor was certainly surprised by Fingon’s appeal, and there was an appraising glint in his eye. Maedhros could not parse what his father was thinking, whether it was belief in Fingon’s sincerity or recognition that Fingolfin’s host was the greatest of the Noldor (and would be hell to fight if they stood with the Teleri) that finally swayed him. But all Maedhros really cared for was when Fëanor nodded once and told them, “Very well. Ensure that this proposal is first on the floor.”

Fingon bowed once more, making Maedhros twitch with the urge to stop him — it was entirely unnatural to see the High King in such an act of deference, even if he was not yet High King.

Maedhros then clenched his hands into fists at the bolt of anxiety which ran through him when he realized the uncertainty of that ‘yet’.

But it was a thought for another time, for Fëanor’s gaze was upon him.

“I would speak with you,” was all he said before turning and striding away, obviously expecting Maedhros to follow. The gathered crowd began to disperse, the display over and their summons evidently revoked.

“Valar go with you,” Fingon murmured, watching Fëanor’s departure with a tilted head. “Eru knows you’ll need ‘em.”

Maedhros just sighed and said, “Tell Turukáno he needn’t speak with Fingolfin, after all.”

“That was the plan,” Fingon commented, raising an amused eyebrow at Maedhros, who felt his face heat up.  _ Not in charge, here _ , he reminded himself, and Fingon gestured him on towards Fëanor’s retreating form.

Maedhros ran after his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #TeleriFerrySystem
> 
> It's Sindarin names for the narrative bits, Quenya names for the dialogue bits...  
> ...and Makalaurë for the present (past??? ugh, present from a narration point) because Maedhros won't let me switch to Maglor yet. He's still got a mental disconnect between the Maglor he knew for millennia and the Makalaurë who ceased to be a long, long time ago T-T


	8. Reworking

They walked in silence for a long time, and Maedhros realized that his father was leading them towards the shore. The docked ships were further south, and so it was an open stretch of sand and ocean which greeted them once they left the encampment behind.

Maedhros missed the sun. He longed to see the waves caught in its light, for it had only been stars that lit their voyage Before. He wondered what it looked like with all its color on display.

“Maitimo,” Fëanor said at length, drawing Maedhros from his thoughts.

“ _ Atar _ ?”

“I know these circumstances weigh heavily on your mind.” Fëanor turned from looking out over the water to looking his eldest in the eye, searching. “Nerdanel worries for you.” The words almost seemed to come unbidden, startling father and son both.

“This time of darkness lays a burden on us all,” Maedhros responded carefully. He knew the truth must be unveiled sooner rather than later, for the manipulations of a single soul against the course laid before them would not, he now knew, be enough — but Fëanor was one of the last people Maedhros wanted to entrust with this knowledge, High King or no.

Fëanor nodded in agreement. “You speak truly. Yet the burden of a king’s son is all the greater for it, for the burden on his people is his to bear as well — a king’s son may yet be king, after all.” His shoulders were rigid, and Maedhros knew that he spoke of himself and Finwë.

That was a grief Maedhros had not given thought to in quite a long time. He knew his father mourned, yet it had been buried in the anger and rage and eloquence which spurred them all onward. Now, though, Maedhros wondered if the realization had even set in yet, for Fëanor. In his own time, losing his father and becoming king in one fell moment had been surreal, and he’d never actually gotten used to the idea of being High King of the Noldor before he was captured, rescued, and had subsequently handed the title off.

With the strange situation being as it was, Maedhros was able to understand his father’s grief all the better for having lost him once already.

Fëanor continued when Maedhros’ contemplation had kept him quiet for too long. “You are my heir. There are none before you, not Fingolfin nor Finarfin nor any of your brothers. The burden is heavy, but you needn’t add to it any confusion over to whom I give my trust.” He gave Maedhros a meaningful look, and Maedhros held in a breath to keep from responding poorly.

Fëanor thought all of this was acting out, that Maedhros had challenged his authority in order to prove that he was  _ capable _ of authority.

Maedhros wanted to beat his own head into a wall, but refrained from doing so — in part because there were no walls close at hand.

And no, he couldn’t simply confess everything to Fëanor just for the sake of clearing the air of all these miscommunications. Not a half hour prior, the elf had been attempting to incite the first kinslaying all over again. He was too young, too inexperienced with the kingship, too Oath-driven. For all Maedhros knew, the knowledge of just how badly everything went Before would kindle an even deeper hatred in his father, resulting in more death and ruin than the last time. If anything, Fëanor had just handed him a gift-wrapped excuse.

“I know my station,” was all Maedhros could offer.

Fëanor nodded, appeased. “That is well, for you are my greatest pride. As such, you must never do this again.” A bit of anger reignited in his voice. “I would not have there be any strife between us, but most especially in such a spectacular manner. I am your father, and your king — you would do well to remember that. Do not take counsel with sons of another house before me.”

Maedhros stopped walking to kneel in the sand, his head bowed. “I will not,” he lied. “I only wished to do what was right. I beg your forgiveness,  _ atar _ .”

He raised his head to see Fëanor’s hand outstretched, a quietly pleased expression on his face. “All is forgiven, Maitimo,” he declared and helped his son to his feet.

They walked awhile beside the shifting waves and spoke of easier things: what questions to ask of Olwë in regard to organizing the people onto ships, how best to sway Finarfin and Fingolfin to support the proposal, what resources and materials would be most important to take to Middle-Earth. It was an opportunity for Maedhros to gently direct them towards a more successful outcome, one in which the most eldar with the greatest preparation reached the mortal shores ready to wage war against Morgoth with hope alive in their breasts instead of despair, guilt, and bitter vengeance to fuel them. He couldn’t show his hand, not yet, but Maedhros did well to steer his father towards decisions Maedhros had learned the hard way to make.

Simmering in the back of his mind was wonderment at how easily Fëanor’s ire had faded. But, truthfully, he seemed as relieved as Maedhros to have put it behind them, and Maedhros wondered how much of his father’s bloodlust from Before was something else entirely.

Eventually their feet turned back to Alqualondë, and they went to the house of Olwë to take part in the discussion. In typical Telerin recalcitrance, it was to be held while breaking their fast, for food and drink were the best companions to healthy conversation by their reckoning — something which had ever made the Noldor and Vanyar both shudder to think on.

Yet not all Telerin custom could overcome Noldorin stubbornness. The second Olwë took his seat, Fëanor marched over to the chair exactly opposite with a stern glare fixed upon his younger brothers. They bemusedly went and took the seats on his right, thereby signalling to all the Noldor present to proceed with their own seating tradition, resulting in all the Noldor properly aligned on one half of the table and the Teleri confusedly taking up the other.

Maedhros sat between Nerdanel and the advisor Olosondë, as he had always done in Valinor. It was strange to sit beside an elf he knew did not — would not? — survive their first encounter with Morgoth’s forces.

Thankfully, his attention was swiftly drawn to the discussion, which was preambled by a thorough and well-spoken summary of the Telerin perspective given by Olwë. Then Fëanor spoke with his usual impassioned grandiosity, followed by Fingon with his and Turgon’s proposition. And then it was off, with all three Noldorin houses on a united front against the Teleri, who themselves were divided on the issue at hand.

It was an elegant and well-deliberated persuasion, which brought to the fore arguments and worries Maedhros had not even known were present, Before. Some Noldor thought the Teleri overcome by the Valar’s will; some Teleri thought the Noldor overcome by Morgoth’s. A Teler put forth the question whether or not the Valar would even allow all the unexiled Noldor to leave, wondering if Lord Ulmo and his  _ maiar _ would sink the ships before reaching their destination. Recalling the storms and ruin of Before, Maedhros understood this fear — it was a healthy respect for the ocean’s power, which the sea-faring folk knew well. Yet, without the kinslaying, there was no Doom and no reason for the Lord of the Waters to be wroth with the Noldor, and he doubted the Valar would put at risk any Telerin lives. In truth, they were essentially holding the Teleri hostage in their bid for safe passage to Middle-Earth.

Ultimately, with such a clear compromise available, Olwë could not long stand against the will of an entire kindred so inflamed with their sense of purpose. What with their opposing wills laid bare, even Olwë could see the sense in their flight, though he was reluctant to admit it.

And so, without saying a single word, Maedhros watched the threads of fate rework themselves into a tapestry of kinship and hope, blue and gold where once it was red with evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor’s trademark is surprising the shit out of everyone, no?  
> Including me, and I'm writing the damn story...  
> I kept trying to make the conversation go south, to have them go off on each other, but Fëanor… wouldn’t??? I am using the canon in which Fëanor burns Amrod alive with the ships at Losgar — how deliberate that murder was is still up in the air, but it’s p sketchy no matter how you view it. But pre-kinslaying!Fëanor and post-kinslaying!Fëanor are wholly different people. It’s one thing to convince oneself to do something batshit a second time, when you’ve already convinced yourself once… the first time is the real catalyst. And a theme in the Silmarillion, which we saw from Melkor in the Ainulindalë, is that of personal isolation leading to the wrong path. In the first kinslaying, Fëanor sat outside Alqualondë by himself, wondering what to do after having a heated exchange with Olwë, and he came to the conclusion that he ought to just take the ships by force. He did not take counsel with /anyone/, nor did anyone force reason on him! This second time around, he and Olwë did not come to the extreme argument of Before, Nerdanel is present to tell him what’s what, and Maedhros just actively disobeyed him — I think that’s enough of a jolt for Fëanor to take a mental step back and think about it all, for a second.  
> And then, of course, he rationalizes Maedhros’ actions by projecting his own insecurities, but like… dad points for trying?
> 
> So, yeah, this chapter is shorter than I thought it would be, but that is the note I'd been wanting to end on. More interactions and drama and whatnot to come, I promise :)


	9. Temp Chapter

Alright folks, I'm back. For real this time.  
Haphazard writing and publishing does jack shit to help with a 'hey let's actually finish a project for once' frame of mind, so some changes are in order!  
1\. I am going to be updating this one chapter a week until completion. First new chapter will be up next Friday. This, I feel, is an achievable goal and I'm all about achievable goals rn  
2\. I am revising previous chapters! Instead of unedited gobbledygook I'm actually working on a cohesive whole. I know, absolutely wild. It may seem like some of these chapters are entirely rewritten, but the essence of what I've already put down is going to be the same. (And there are a few times I'm legitimately confident in my turn of phrase, not to toot my own horn...) Don't worry if you don't want to go back and reread the first eight chapters, the ensuing chapters will still make sense, I promise. They will be up before next Friday, though I can't give you a specific timeframe.  
That being said, I would like to thank all of you for reading, and to give special hugs and love to the kudoers and commenters and bookmarkers — y'all are the ones who drew me back, and I can only hope that the story I have to offer is half as compelling as the inspiration you've offered me <3  
Like I said, updates on Fridays! See you then!


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